


At the Chemist's

by i_claudia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-01
Updated: 2008-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Harry feels like he’s alone and lost in the world he saved when run-in with an old schoolmate changes his worldview irrevocably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Chemist's

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 hp_rarities exchange and posted [here](http://hp-rarities.livejournal.com/12461.html). (01 June 2008)

Harry Potter was not in a rut, no matter what Hermione Granger thought. He wasn’t in _hiding_ , either. It was perfectly normal for a retired Savior to live in a tiny flat in Muggle London and eat take-away and marmalade on toast and step outside precisely once every week to stock up on biscuits and assure his friends that he was still alive.

At the moment, he was regretting that last item as he waved goodbye to Hermione and Ron outside Diagon Alley and headed off down the street back toward his flat. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy seeing them, he thought as he tucked his chin further down into his coat against the bitter January wind. Everything was just still so near; he needed space to clear his head, to sort out what he wanted to do with his life now that…

_Now that you’ve fulfilled your only purpose?_ the mean little voice in the back of his head asked, but he shoved it back down. He’d let that particular tidbit slip once and only once, and Hermione had yet to let him forget it. She worried that he didn’t get out enough; she kept _watching_ him, checking up on him during the week, making sure he was _happy_. He snorted. Of course he wasn’t going to be utterly and disgustingly cheerful. They’d been in the middle of a war last year. He was godson to an orphan whose grandmother couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes. The Ministry wanted him to be their nice, comfortable poster boy who lived a normal life, toed the line and didn’t do anything unexpected. _The Prophet_ wanted the latest dirt, the juiciest gossip on the Boy Who Lived Twice; so did _Witch Weekly_ , especially since Ginny had left to tour the world with Luna without rekindling her romance with Harry.

Harry sighed moodily and aimed a kick at the sidewalk. All he wanted was to be left alone to live in peace, without everyone staring at his stupid scar all the time, but he seem doomed to never get that wish. Maybe he was acting petty and selfish, but the way he saw it, there had to be some kind of perk to being the Savior, and that seemed like as good a perk as any.

He was almost to his flat when he looked up and noticed a new chemist’s had moved into one of the drab buildings. Normally he wouldn’t have given it a second glance, but Hermione’s words were still ringing in his head.

_I’ll show her_ , he thought rebelliously, stopping and looking at the shop in determination. He was a perfectly normal young man who did perfectly normal things like visit random chemist shops, and he certainly didn’t need any _interventions_ to help him “get up on his feet”. Squaring his shoulders, he marched forward and remembered just in time not to flinch as the automatic doors swung open.

He stepped through into the shop warily, glancing furtively around, tense, half-expecting someone to recognize him, waiting for the screams and parchments shoved toward him, the babies thrust forward for him to admire. The other patrons ignored him completely. He took another, braver step forward, straightening as he did so, his confidence growing as he realized that no one recognized him or cared about who he was. _There_ , he thought to himself proudly. 

Walking slowly, he meandered through the aisles of the shop, stopping here and there to examine things or test the completeness of his anonymity. Turning a corner near the back of the shop, he happened across two workers deep in conversation. One was short and stout, with sandy hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. He appeared to be arguing with the second worker, a tall black man who seemed to be utterly bored with the exchange. Harry watched as he leaned gracefully back against the wall and examined his fingers as Sandy-Hair fussed – something about the stockroom and proper procedure. Sandy-Hair seemed quite a bit like Uncle Vernon, Harry noted as the blond man grew steadily redder in the face at the other man’s nonchalance.

There was something familiar about the black man, too, Harry thought, narrowing his eyes and moving closer almost unconsciously. He couldn’t quite place him, but he _knew_ he’d seen him before…

The man looked up suddenly, and his eyebrows snapped together as he caught sight of Harry, who realized too late that his eavesdropping attempt was horribly obvious. The man straightened, stepping forward.

“Harry Potter,” he said levelly, his almond eyes piercing, and Harry felt his heart sink. He wasn’t even safe in Muggle London anymore, if they could even find him here, in a tiny chemist’s tucked away down a back street. But who _was_ this man? He wracked his mind, trying to match the face to someone in his memory.

Sandy-Hair swiveled his head around, his train of thought apparently derailed with the shock of seeing the other man actually react to something, and gave Harry a suspicious look. “Can we help you, sir?”

“Oh, erm,” Harry stuttered, caught off-guard by the question. “I was just…”

“I can take care of him,” the black man said, not taking his eyes off of Harry.

This earned an even more suspicious look from Sandy-Hair, but he moved off down another aisle, apparently reluctant to start another argument in front of a customer.

Harry studied the other man warily, a distant part of his brain taking a moment to appreciate the smooth, sculpted curve of his neck, the elegant arch of his eyebrow…

He shook off those thoughts quickly. This man was familiar – a wizard, Harry was sure of it. This man knew who he was; Harry wanted to know why.

The other man was studying him just as closely, he realized, but any emotion he had on seeing Harry was tightly locked away behind a perfectly smooth expression. After a few moments, the man shook his head, his mouth a thin line.

“You don’t remember me, do you,” he remarked, his voice flat. “I should have known.”

“Well,” Harry offered, still tensed to run if he had to, “you do _look_ familiar. And,” he added, doing his best to sound nonchalant, “you know my name, which is sort of disturbing in this part of London.”

The other man gave Harry a look that clearly conveyed the idea that Harry was not the brightest of the batch and had possibly even been dropped on the head as a small child.

_Slytherin_ , Harry thought suddenly. _That’s definitely a Slytherin look_. He looked more closely at the man, pushing his glasses up without thinking about it as he concentrated. Slytherin, and he seemed to think he’d known Harry fairly well, which meant they had probably been in the same year…

Harry blinked, his mouth falling open with the shock as he realized who the man must be.

“Blaise _Zabini_?” he said, incredulous.

If he was surprised by Harry’s delayed recognition, Zabini didn’t show it in his expression. He did, however, shush Harry before grabbing his arm and dragging him around the corner and through a door marked _Employees Only_. Harry struggled at first before deciding he was more interested in finding out what the hell Blaise Zabini was doing working in Muggle London, and let himself be pulled along.

The door led to a small cleaning closet, and Harry found himself standing far closer to Zabini than he felt entirely comfortable with, sandwiched between a handful of forlorn-looking mops and shelves which were precariously overloaded with industrial-strength cleansers. He tried not to breathe the fumes in too deeply as Zabini shut the door behind them and flicked the single light-bulb on.

Turning around, Zabini gave Harry a sharp look. “What are you doing here?” he asked, the barest hint of an edge to his voice.

“I could ask you the same question,” Harry replied indignantly, feeling the old anger rise, warming him. “And anyway, I have every right to be here.”

Zabini’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And I don’t have that right?” he hissed, the edge sharper now.

Harry looked at him, bewildered, before the full force of his words hit him and he glanced reflexively down at Zabini’s left arm. It was covered by his sleeve, and Harry brought his gaze back up, his mind working quickly. He vaguely remembered that the only thing conspicuous about Blaise Zabini in the Death Eater trials had been his absence – there hadn’t been enough evidence to bring him up in front of the Wizengamot. Apparently, he thought, amused, Zabini was still sensitive about his near-miss.

He let a faint smile play around his lips, buoyed by the familiarity of this exchange. _Here_ was something he knew how to handle; with this he felt completely in control. Zabini was a Slytherin – perhaps a Death Eater, perhaps not – but even if he wasn’t, Harry was still the Boy Who Lived. He’d face down a hundred Slytherins if it got rid of the troubled sense of uselessness that greeted him every morning.

“So what _are_ you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked boldly. “What reason on earth would make a Slytherin work in a Muggle shop of his own free will? Were the cells in Azkaban were too full for you?” As he spoke, he felt a niggling sense of unfairness about his last words, but the heady feeling of _rightness_ , of _doing something_ overwhelmed him, pushing him onward.

Zabini proved harder to provoke than expected. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he answered coolly.

Harry scowled. “It is if you’re trying to hurt people.”

“Do I _look_ like the sadistic type?”

Harry laughed. “You’re a Slytherin!”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Zabini shot back. “That I’m supposed to enjoy torturing small furry things and killing Muggles?” He gave Harry a disgusted look, and Harry let his anger bubble up and out.

“Yes!” he said, trying and failing to keep his voice level. “You helped Umbridge with the Inquisitorial Squad. You ran from the Battle of Hogwarts! You got up and left, instead of fighting against the evilest wizard in existence!” He glared at Zabini, who only stared back, emotionless, which riled his anger even more.

“I _know_ you must’ve tortured people, that last year – who knows, maybe you even killed some, too,” Harry said, letting the words drop off his tongue with relish. Zabini froze in the act of opening his mouth to speak, his mask finally showing cracks, but somehow the satisfaction Harry had been expecting never came. He tensed, ready to return the blow he knew was coming, but it never came.

“Potter,” Zabini said at last, and his voice was freezing and precise, tightly controlled. “You should be very, very glad that it’s _me_ you’re talking to; you might be a little smear on the concrete now otherwise.”

Harry snorted at the unlikelihood of that, but Zabini wasn’t done.

“This little reunion has been fun, but it’s over now,” he told Harry in a low voice that brooked no argument. “Get out.”

“No,” Harry said stubbornly. “You’ve got to be up to _something_ , and I want to know what.”

Zabini regarded him coldly. “Think what you like,” he replied. “But if I see you again you’d best be on your guard.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Harry, but Zabini had turned and was through the door in a flash, leaving Harry alone with the cleaning supplies. Sighing, Harry leaned back against the wall, pushing the bedraggled mops away in irritation as he thought. Zabini was a Slytherin, and therefore definitely up to something, he told himself; and who better to keep an eye on him than Harry Potter?

He smiled, feeling more alive than he had in months. Now he had a purpose again; already he felt better about the world. _Watch out, Zabini_ , he thought. _You’ve no idea what’s about to send your little world crashing down_.

***

Over the next few months, Harry took to haunting the chemist’s, looking for Zabini. The Slytherin seemed to work odd hours; it made the hunt all the more exciting when the weeks wore on with Harry only catching brief glimpses of the other man as he disappeared into a crowd or whipped around a corner. At lunch one week, Hermione remarked approvingly that he was looking far better, and that she was glad he’d finally started taking care of himself. At one point, she tried to discreetly ask him if he’d found a new love interest, if that was why he was looking so well, but Harry chose to tactfully ignore her. She didn’t need to know he was on the trail again, doing what he did best and clearing the world of evil.

He grew better at predicting Zabini’s work hours, but instead of analyzing his every move for evil, Harry found himself gradually drawn into just _watching_ the other man. Sometimes he went to the chemist’s as himself, following Zabini around and talking at him while Zabini did his best to either ignore or mock him. Some days he watched from afar: concealed behind a newspaper one day, a moustache the next. He was just making sure Zabini didn’t do anything evil, he reminded himself hurriedly, but little details kept sneaking into his thoughts unbidden: the way Zabini’s skin gleamed, the flex of his biceps as he lifted merchandise, the fullness of his mouth or the slight quirk of his eyebrow when he thought someone was being unnaturally dense. Harry got to see that particular eyebrow movement especially frequently, he noted, but to his surprise, it didn’t especially bother him.

He also began to notice, to his surprise, that Zabini was not, against all expectations, a terrible person. In fact, if Harry hadn’t known better, he might’ve said Zabini was downright _nice_ , with a gorgeous smile to boot. Of course, he did know better, so this _niceness_ only served to solidify his suspicions.

One late spring afternoon, he was watching the chemist’s from across the street, lounging against a lamppost with a newspaper in front of his face and enjoying the sunshine, when Zabini came up behind him and sighed, making him jump.

“When are you going to quit stalking me, Potter?”

“I’m not stalking you,” Harry argued. “I’m _watching_ you.”

Zabini crossed his arms over his chest. “I fail to see the difference,” he remarked, eyeing Harry inscrutably.

“There is,” insisted Harry. “I’m just making sure you don’t do anything…”

Zabini cut him off. “What’s it going to take for you to stop it and leave me alone?” he asked bluntly, and Harry paused, surprised.

“Stop?”

“Yes, Potter. You may be having fun, but I hardly fancy having to go around with you trailing me for the rest of my life.”

Harry considered that for a fleeting moment. “Come down to the pub with me,” he said, thinking vaguely that maybe if he plied Zabini with enough alcohol the Slytherin would confess all of his devious plans to Harry.

Zabini raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “The pub?” he repeated, incredulous. Harry nodded, and he closed his eyes. “I cannot believe this is happening to me,” he announced to the world. “I am being stalked by Harry Potter and the only solution he has is to go to the _pub_.”

Harry shrugged, setting his chin mulishly.

Zabini sighed and reopened his eyes. “Fine. You’re buying.”

***

Several drinks into their evening, Harry began to think that his clever plot might not have been the most foolproof of strategies. He squinted across the dimly-lit table at Zabini, who was starting to look a bit swimmy around the edges. That was good, he thought hazily. That way he couldn’t sit and look at the curve of Blaise’s fingers as he held onto his drink, couldn’t watch from beneath lowered lashes as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed, couldn’t admire the soft shell of his ear or the smoothness of his skin.

He shook himself, silently cursing his inability to hold his drink. It did funny things to his mind, like find former enemies irresistibly attractive.

“You’re not drinking enough,” he accused the other man, who was leaning his chair back against the wall and cradling a drink with one hand, looking completely at ease.

Zabini looked at him, arranging his face carefully into a frown. “I am too,” he said slowly. “Or was that a challenge?”

Harry shook his head, certain that that was an even worse idea than his current one. “No challenge,” he amended, grumbling. 

“Coward,” Zabini remarked slyly into his drink.

“Am not!” he protested. Catching sight of Blaise’s cat-like smile, his stomach gave a strange, lurching jump as he scowled, feeling distinctly at a disadvantage. That had to change, he thought. _He_ was the one who was supposed to be calling the shots tonight.

He might as well go all in, he thought, and took a breath.

“What are you doing, Zabini?” he asked, leaning forward and setting his empty glass down on the table with a decisive _thunk_.

Any amusement Zabini had shown was gone in an instant. “What do you mean, ‘what am I doing’? I’m having a drink because you’re apparently so desperate for company you’ve taken to stalking and bribing your enemies to spend time with you.”

Harry made a rude gesture at him, which Zabini ignored. “I _meant_ ,” Harry said with exaggerated patience, “what are you doing working for _Muggles_.”

Zabini set down his own glass, folding his hands in front of him. “What’s wrong with Muggles?” he asked steadily. “You seemed to be pretty fond of them at one point. Or was that all just a sham, a ruse to go to war on?”

“What?” Harry demanded. “That’s mad! I don’t have a problem with Muggles – _you’re_ the one who wanted them all gone!”

Zabini’s eyes blazed with anger, but he didn’t come back with some withering remark, as Harry had been expecting. He stood up in one fluid motion, and Harry jumped up to face him, itching for a fight, for _something_ to take his mind off the fact that his gut had started doing strange gymnastics and he felt light-headed and utterly strange in his own skin. Zabini made as if to leave, but Harry stepped in front of him, stopping him, staring him down.

“You want to know what my problem is, Potter?” he asked, not looking away from Harry’s eyes, and his tone made Harry shiver; he sounded _dangerous_. Zabini pointed a finger at Harry. “You’re my problem. You’ve _always_ been my problem. You and your damned pride, your sheer Gryffindor stupidity, always barging in and making things _worse_.” Harry stepped back as Zabini towered over him, trying to keep his distance, but the other man simply took another step forward, backing him against the table. 

For the first time, Harry started to wonder just what he’d gotten himself into. He’d never encountered this depth of cold rage before – he always ended up fighting things out with plenty of yelling and black eyes. This was new, this was frightening. This was, he thought briefly as a thrill ran through him, _exciting_.

“Did you know that my father was a Muggle?” Zabini asked, and while his tone was almost conversational, the glint in his eyes spoke otherwise. “Not that I knew him at all, but that didn’t matter in the eyes of some. Do you know how hard I worked to avoid suspicion, to command enough respect that people didn’t ask too many questions? And then there you were, with your minions trumpeting about good and evil and Dark Lords and Muggles, making people look around more carefully, more suspiciously.” He lowered his voice, whispering almost in Harry’s ear. Harry closed his eyes, trying to ignore the mad things his heart was doing as Zabini’s words ghosted across his cheek.

“If anyone had ever found out,” Zabini breathed, “I would have disappeared. Mysteriously, completely disappeared, and no one would have ever known what had happened to me. So I blended in, pulled off the greatest act Slytherin House has ever seen, and the only thing I got in return was the scorn of people who thought they knew everything there was to know about me. People like you, Potter,” he added darkly.

He drew back, and Harry opened his eyes again, feeling faint. “I never,” he said shakily, “that is to say, I didn’t mean to, to _scorn_ you…”

Zabini chuckled humorlessly. “Of course you did,” he retorted. “You’ve never known who I really was. Never. And you never bothered to learn, either.”

Harry gazed up at his clouded face, but instead of feeling guilt, all he could think of was the deep mahogany color of Zabini’s eyes, the firm line of his jaw. Without thinking, he reached up and took Zabini’s face in his hands, stroking a thumb along the high cheekbone, and before the other man could react, crashed their mouths together.

He wasn’t sure how long his mouth moved against Zabini’s before the other man brought his own hands up to grip Harry’s hair, pulling him closer, opening his mouth and drawing Harry in completely. Harry made a low sound in his throat and slid one hand around to caress Zabini’s neck, losing himself in sensation.

At Harry’s touch, though, he seemed to come to himself. Zabini fought his grip, breaking away roughly. Harry slumped back against the table, flustered and disbelieving. He looked up, expecting more cold, furious rage, but Zabini was gone.

***

_Blaise,_

_I’m sorry about the other night; that was completely out of order. ~~I want to do it again~~. ~~It’s your fault for being so good-looking~~. Can I see you again – just to talk? ~~I don’t feel like a real person when I’m not with you~~. I’ve been thinking about what you said. I promise I won’t… jump at you or anything._

_Harry_

_\---_

_Zabini,_

_Not responding to an owl is pretty childish, you know. I said I was sorry for It. ~~Even if I’m not actually sorry it happened~~. I’m not going to apologize for the other thing, what you were talking about, because I don’t feel guilt over what I did. I am sorry it was awful for you, though. ~~I can’t stop thinking about you~~. Let’s discuss this as sober, rational adults, why don’t we?_

_HP_

_\---_

_Look you wanker. ~~I don’t care~~ ~~Fuck you~~. ~~I want to~~_

_~~I hope you choke~~. You know, I could just find out where you’re living and hunt you down. I have quite a few strings at the Ministry I could pull._

_HP_

_\---_

_Potter,_

_You’d better hope I never send that last owl of yours to the Prophet. Just imagine what the press would do with something like that._

_Also, fuck off. I never want to see your miserable face again._

_B. Zabini_

***

Harry wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting Zabini’s neighborhood to look like, but it certainly hadn’t been this quiet row of modest buildings. Walking up the steps to the front door of one of the buildings, he found Zabini’s name and flat number on a small plate and rang the buzzer, hoping that… what? Zabini would decide freedom wasn’t worth it anymore and curse him on sight? That he might, in a fit of insanity, kiss Harry _back_? He wondered for a moment which outcome he feared most before Zabini’s voice came out of the speaker.

For a brief, giddy moment, he thought about running away before Zabini could figure out who it was, but then he shook himself, reminded himself firmly that he was a _Gryffindor_ , damn it, and spoke.

“It’s me,” he said, and there was a deafening silence.

“How the hell did you find me?” asked Zabini finally.

“I tracked your owl.”

There was some muffled muttering, which Harry strongly suspected consisted mostly of swearing, and then Zabini said “Come on up,” sounding tired and resigned.

Zabini’s flat was clean and simple, Harry noted as he looked around with interest. He didn’t have much in the way of furniture, just a couch and a low side table that looked at least a few centuries old, but it didn’t look bare, just… uncluttered.

“What are you here for?” Zabini asked from the other side of the room as he shut the front door. Harry turned to look at him.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said.

“Well, you’re here.” Zabini made a beckoning gesture. “So talk.”

“I meant _we_ should talk,” Harry replied, frowning. “About what happened.”

Zabini gave a short, exasperated sigh and walked past Harry. “I don’t see what there is to say.”

Harry took a breath for courage, reached out, and grabbed his elbow. Zabini wrenched it out of his grip quickly, but stopped to look at him, and Harry pressed forward. He’d been thinking about this for too many weeks to let his one last opportunity slip away. “Look, I get why you hated me in school so much now, but that’s all water under the bridge, isn’t it? If someone had told me a year ago that I’d…” he trailed off, swallowing. “That I’d, well, _fancy_ you, I probably would’ve laughed them out of the room. But I guess I’m different than I was a year ago – and I like the different me better. I feel more _alive_ than ever, and that’s… well, that’s mostly to do with you.”

He looked up to see that Zabini was studying him with a peculiar expression on his face. Harry’s gut twisted. _Now I’ve gone and bollixed it all up_ , he thought with a sinking feeling, and scolded himself for being such a gigantic fool.

“And I could’ve sworn that you weren’t entirely… opposed to… things… while they were happening,” he finished lamely. “But I guess… oh hell, this is all just a terrible mistake; I’ve got it all wrong…”

He trailed off miserably, intently studying his shoes so he wouldn’t have to look anywhere more painful.

Zabini interrupted him. “Yes,” he agreed, the strange look still in his eyes. “You have got it all wrong.”

“I’ll just be leaving, then,” Harry said, trying and failing spectacularly to sound falsely bright as he headed for the door, but Zabini caught _him_ by the arm before he could get far.

“You twit,” Zabini said, not letting go of his arm, but the words were without rancor. Harry stood stock still, unsure what exactly was happening. 

“I was drunk that night,” Zabini continued, sounding pensive, “and I think what I meant to say might have been mixed up slightly.”

“You came through pretty loud and clear about why I was the root of all your troubles,” Harry said, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “We’re all clear on that now. So if you just let me go, I can get out of…”

Zabini squeezed his arm gently, and Harry started. He started to wonder if Zabini had been kidnapped, if this was a Polyjuiced fake-Zabini.

“No,” said Zabini, and there was just enough of the familiar drawling disdain for Harry to feel reassured about the identity of his captor. “I left a part out of the story. The part where I was furious at you for ignoring me and paying Malfoy all sorts of attention, because it thought I was madly in love with you.”

Harry stood, pole axed, as that filtered through his brain. _Madly in love with…_

“Thought you were…” he managed, looking up, and Zabini nodded, assiduously studying the ground. Harry fell silent again, turning things over in his head that had never before made sense.

“You thought I fancied Malfoy?” he asked finally, incredulous. “ _Malfoy_?”

“Well, you were sort of obsessed,” said Blaise, the beginnings of a grin tugging at his mouth. “And he does have that certain pureblooded… charm.”

Harry laughed, feeling the tension in his shoulders fade. “If by ‘charm’ you really mean ‘crazy’, then sure.”

Blaise’s face grew serious again, and he looked up to meet Harry’s eyes. “Look, Harry, I didn’t mean to…”

Harry placed his hand over Blaise’s mouth. “I know. Water under the bridge, remember?”

Reaching up, Blaise took Harry’s hand and pulled it away, smoothing his fingers over Harry’s knuckles, making Harry shiver. “So,” Blaise remarked, his grin wide and wicked, “what _shall_ we do now that we’re no longer enemies?”

Harry grinned back. “I’m sure we can think of something,” he said, his free arm slipping around Blaise’s waist and drawing him close.


End file.
